Spurlock grew cold. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. "Now, then, Saint Giles!" interposed Sheppard, "are we to be kept here all night?" "Eh day!" exclaimed Sharples: "wot new-fledged bantam's this?" "One that wants to go to roost," replied Sheppard. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching.
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